


Do You Sleep Well?

by anisland



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action, F/F, POV Sameen Shaw, POV Third Person, Post-Episode: s03e23 Deus Ex Machina, Romance, Science Fiction, anisland, do you sleep well?, lord king bad, shoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anisland/pseuds/anisland
Summary: After Deus Ex Machina, the Machine sends everyone their separate ways. Reese and Harold hold down the fort in Manhattan, and Root continues her work for the Machine. Shaw, on the other hand, has been shuffled around upstate, taking on a host of identities and working irrelevant numbers. When Root and the Machine interrupt the relative quiet she's gotten used to, Shaw is drawn back into the AI war, where she is forced to confront her humanity. Is it possible, she wonders, to feel like she's normal?





	1. The Calm

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a very long time, and it will probably update infrequently. I do not own Person of Interest or any of its characters, and this is all in good fun. Depictions of violence and sexuality are no more graphic than what is depicted in the show.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and the usual apologies for typos and errors I missed while editing.

                                                                                                               
     Sameen Shaw loiters against a brick building on the corner of Alexander, one hand shoved inside the pocket of her leather jacket’s lining, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of her gun. She furrows her eyebrows at the drag queens grinning and laughing their ways past the entrance, all clad in glitter, feathers, and bright neon, ready for their slots on the stage. One of them turns to her, bats her eyelashes, performs her character to a T.  
     “Ladies nights are Thursdays, honey,” she says. “If you’re looking for your very own friend of Ellen, you’re out of luck.” She approaches Shaw and leans next to her on the wall, lights a cigarette. The queen takes a drag, a car rockets past them. It’s dusk.  
     Shaw rolls her eyes, frowns at the green catsuit, the platinum blonde wig, the overdrawn make-up. “I’ve already got one. I’m looking for a man tonight.”  
     The queen laughs. “Do you know where you are?”  
     A smirk curls on Shaw’s lips. “Do you?”  
     “Rochester’s hottest drag bar, honey.”  
     Shaw nods. “Is your name Ben Roth?”  
     The queen’s expression drops. She turns her body to face Shaw, towers over her and crosses her arms.  
     “Who wants to know?”  
     Shaw’s jaw tenses. “Yes or no. Are you Ben Roth?”  
     The queen reaches up, pulls her wig down over the back of her neck. When she speaks again, her voice is an octave lower.  
     “I’m Ben,” he says. “Why?”  
     “For starters,” Shaw says, “you should duck.”  
     She grabs Ben and shoves him to the ground just as another car careens around the corner, and someone in the back seat opens fire. Shaw whips her gun from inside her coat, aims, and fires at the shooter. The assailant wears a ski mask, but from the way their eyes widen, Shaw knows she hit them.  
                                                                                                     * * *  
     This whole Upstate thing isn’t really where she pictured herself, but she’d rather be somewhere like Rochester than Utica or Buffalo. At least it feels like Manhattan sometimes; even Hollywood thinks so enough to send film crews here when shooting in New York is too expensive. The Machine even set her up with a place in one of the city’s trendier neighborhoods and landed her a gig at coffee shop on Park Avenue, making twenty somethings in thrift store sweaters their green tea lattes and doling out WiFi passwords; she can’t leave the apartment without stepping into a sea of undercuts and tattoos. Still, it’s quiet here, much quieter than New York, and cleaner, too. She’s settling in somewhere for the first time on this absurd journey. She’s even going out with someone Saturday night, which she knows will end in sex, which she will leave at that.  
     Part of her misses feeling coated in a population’s collective grime, if only for its familiarity. She doesn’t dwell it. Sameen Shaw isn’t really one for sentimentalism, and though she doesn’t necessarily have everything she wants, Rochester, New York gives her exactly what she needs to stay alive.  
     She wonders if the others know the Machine can reach her out here. As far as she understands, Reese and Harold are still in the city, taking down numbers and saving innocent people just the same as they did before. And then there’s Root. The Machine merely communicates with the others, but it talks to Root, has a relationship with her.  
     Shaw considers this as she enters the pub on Gregory Street she’s been frequenting since her relocation. The beer list is six pages long and rests on a clipboard, which she flips through causally after taking a seat at the polished oak bar. She frowns at it, then tosses it aside before making eye contact with the bartender. Shaw’s mouth opens to speak, but he beats her to it.  
     “Whatever has the highest alcohol percentage?” he asks with a knowing smile.  
     Shaw flashes a humorless grin back. “You’ve got me pegged, Doug.”  
     A moment, and Doug sets a porter in a tulip glass in front of her. “Thirteen percent,” he smiles.  
     “Thanks,” Shaw says. “Have another ready.”  
     Root always ran odd missions for the Machine, different from the ones she, Finch, and Reese did. They focused on saving people, one at a time, but the Machine guided Root in taking down Samaritan, which often consisted of more morally questionable and strategically intricate work. Lately, though, she’s been off the grid. Shaw’s cover has been blown more than once on this extended excursion underground and each time, the Machine’s provided her with a new one. She’s grown accustomed to Root checking up on her after each relocation. She never stayed long, not more than a few minutes, but in those few minutes always left Shaw uncharacteristically blushing. Root came to see her at the make-up counter in Manhattan. Root slipped into her delivery truck in Old Forge. Root checked out books from her at the library in Oswego. She followed her from White Plains to Ithaca, tracked her in a circle around the state, but hasn’t yet made it to Rochester, even after three months.  
     Something wasn’t right.  
     Okay, so she lied to Ben Roth about having a girlfriend. But really, when she said it, she had Root on her mind. She would never say it out loud, but she wants Root to be here. Saying the two of them have their differences would be putting it very lightly, but knowing Root has her back makes the fear that pricks in Shaw’s stomach, rotting her from the inside out under layers of bravado and training and what she had always been sure was antisocial personality disorder, subside to just a flicker. The nagging thought that something’s happened to Root? Shaw doesn’t like it.  
     The phone rings behind the bar, and Doug’s quick to answer. “For you, Jules.” He holds the phone out to Shaw. Julia Wilson is currently seeking a masters degree in film preservation from the University of Rochester, though the Machine falsifies her entire academic portfolio day-to-day, her undergraduate degree, her grades, even her attendance and tuition. Shaw would rather just be Shaw, but she supposes being Julia Wilson isn’t that bad. It was better than being Megan Sharpe, who worked in a cubicle at a call center, or Allison Kent, who sold oxy to suburban moms in near by Canandaigua.  
     Shaw frowns at Doug, then takes the phone. The Machine’s never called her in a bar, or anywhere really aside from a pay phone. She places it to her ear, bites her lip. Waits. Nothing. Her grip tenses around the phone. She decides to take a chance. “This is Jules,” she says.  
     Silence.  
     Whatever’s on the other line hangs up and her ears fill with cold, mechanic static.  
     She inhales and hands the phone back to Doug. He gives her a quizzical shrug, and she places a hand to her chin, rubs her thumb across her bottom lip. “What did they sound like?”  
     “Hmm?” Doug looks up. He had returned to cleaning glasses.  
     “The person who asked for me.”  
     Doug sets his glass down and turns to Shaw. “Woman. She called you Sam first, though. She said, ‘Is Sam there?’ and then laughed at herself and backtracked and said ‘Sorry, I mean Julia.’ They way she said your name was like, I don’t know, but there was something flirty about it.”  
     “Huh,” Shaw says, her expression entirely neutral.  
     But wondering why Root dropped the line sends unwelcome shivers down her arms, up her spine.  
     She downs her beer in one go, then stands. “Hold the second one, Doug. Something just came up.”  
                                                                                                         * * *  
     Shaw climbs the stairs to her second floor apartment and considers her next move with a frown. Root is in danger, but unless the Machine gives her a number, there’s no way for Shaw to even think about how to find her. On the sidewalk, she looked straight into a security camera, a desperate measure, and spoke to the Machine as directly as one could while pedestrians gave her odd glances and a wide berth. She didn’t say much to the Machine. Just, “Help me find her.”  
     The Machine has yet to respond.  
     Shaw digs her key out of her pocket, too lost in thought initially to realize that she doesn’t need it. Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the ajar door.  
Soundless, she pulls her piece from inside her jacket and holds it steady in her extended hand. Her feet edge her closer to the door, and she uses the barrel of the gun to push it open.  
     Shaw barely has time to register the tall, clean cut man in the black uniform before a muffled shot sounds from behind him. He drops face first towards Shaw, and she catches him under the arms.  
     “Hey, sweetie,” Root says. She leans casually against the side of a book shelf, the edge of her mouth curled into a knowing smirk. She looks Shaw up and down, and she’s shameless about it. “Oh. I like you in leather.”  
     Shaw lets the Samaritan operative thump to the floor, notes that Root got him right in the back of the head. She rolls her eyes, but allows the comment to slide. If anyone else spoke to her like that, she’d deck them, but with Root, as annoying as it is, it’s also part of the fun, the intrigue, the action. Root flirts with Shaw, Shaw says something sarcastic, Root pushes it further, Shaw hides that she’s flustered, Shaw accidentally flirts back. It’s just how they operate.  
     “Did you break in first, or was it left for dead over here?” Shaw asks. She kicks the operative’s body inside the confines of the apartment, then shuts the door. She steps over him and treads lightly to the center of the room.  
     “Oh, Sam. I’d never break in to your apartment. Such an invasion of privacy. I found a key.” She raises her hand, and sure enough, she has a key pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “But really,” she takes a few steps forward until only an inch remains between her and Shaw. Her voice drops. “You should have changed the locks weeks ago.”  
     Shaw almost laughs, but instead, she turns away from Root and saunters to kitchen. She returns with a glass of scotch. Root frowns at her. “Weren’t you just at a bar?”  
     Shaw shakes her head. “That was before I knew I’d be dealing with you tonight.” She takes a sip of her drink. The slow burn down her throat is pleasant and comforting, and she only now realizes how much tension she carried in her shoulders, and how much of it was relieved when Root appeared in front of her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” The question comes accompanied with a glare.  
     “Your cover’s been blown. Again. The Machine sent me to end those guys before they ended you.”  
     “More than one?”  
     Root laughs. “You might not want to go in your bedroom.”  
     Shaw bites her lip. “Okay. What’s next?”  
     Root’s expression drops, the smug glow gone from her eyes. “She’s worried about you, Sameen.” Shaw locks eyes with her, nods for her to keep going. “Samaritan’s been working overtime to find you, and we’re not sure why. Maybe it hopes you’ll lead it to Harold, maybe even the Machine. Whatever it is, they want you alive and they want what you know.”  
     Shaw lets out a breath. “The one place the Machine dumped me that I didn’t hate.”  
     Root smiles, as reassuring and warm as Shaw has ever seen her. “It’s okay if you miss your date this weekend,” she says. “You just got a hotter one.” Root smirks and gestures to herself.  
     Shaw frowns. Root notes the change in her expression, gives a nervous laugh. She turns to a pile of weapons and ammo on the couch and begins organizing it.  
     “Wait,” Shaw says. “How did you know I have a date this weekend?”  
     Root doesn’t look up. “The Machine tol—“  
     “The Machine doesn’t do that.”  
     Root sighs. “Okay. I’ve been tailing you all week.”  
     “And you didn’t let me know you were here sooner?” Shaw clenches her fists, but isn't exactly sure if her anger stems from Root’s neglect or the fact that Root probably saw her tell Ben Roth she had a girlfriend.  
     Root turns to her, shrugs. “I didn’t want to blow my cover, too.”  
     Shaw approaches Root. She starts organizing the weapons. “Well, thanks.” She reaches for a gun, and Root’s hand lands on top of hers, holds it. Shaw looks up and meet’s Root’s eyes, which have softened just a little bit.  
     “So,” Root says. “Who’s this girlfriend of yours?” She rubs the back of Shaw’s hand with her thumb. “You like her better than me?”  
     Shaw jerks her hand from under Root’s. She scowls. “She’s definitely quieter.”  
     Root’s smile drops. “I see.”  
     They finish packing the rest of Shaw’s things in silence. Neither speaks the whole way back to Manhattan.


	2. New York, New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Usual apologies for typos and the like. Hope you enjoy!

     Shaw’s never been to this bar on West 12th. The Machine mostly leads them around Midtown, Hell’s Kitchen, sometimes Bushwick or Jackson Heights, but lower Manhattan remains apparently untouched by irrelevant numbers. The Village and SoHo are pretty places Shaw never has a reason to visit, but the Machine told Root to come here, so this is where she is.  
     It’s a lesbian bar, she’s sure. It’s a Friday night and the single room is packed to the rafters with an odd yet somehow fitting mix of middle-aged women in professional wear and twenty and thirty somethings doing their best to imitate the likes of Kristen Stewart and Ellen Page, trapping each other in corners to kiss, laughing in small huddles with their friends. A few gay men also occupy the space, as well as some straight ones who clearly came with their lesbian or bisexual best friends and aren’t sure what to do with themselves.  
     Shaw frowns. She tries to squeeze her way through to the bar because standing next to Root makes her insides shake. A mob six people deep buries the slab of wood from both ends, so Shaw retreats back to the wall, back to Root. Her eyes catch those of a woman on the other side of the room with an undercut and smokey eye shadow. On any other night, Shaw would take her home. Instead, she snakes an arm around Root’s waist, signals her unavailability. She pulls Root closer to make it convincing, but Root’s warmth on her hip spreads through Shaw’s arteries, carries through her body. She breaths it out from her lungs.  
     Root looks at her, chances a tentative grin.  
     Shaw nods, but that’s it. Root’s smile spreads, and she drifts to face Shaw, pins her against the wall. She presses them together, and moves her mouth to Shaw’s ear. “The guy we’re looking for should be here any minute.” Root glances behind her at the woman who is still smirking at Shaw. “Until then, we might as well try to blend in.” Root brings her whole body to rest against Shaw’s, wraps her arms around her torso like they’re a happy, drunken couple. Shaw only stops herself from rolling her eyes because she doesn’t want to blow her cover again so soon. She does hug Root a little closer, but she tells herself it’s only to make her new identity seem more legitimate.  
     Sameen Shaw has just morphed into Emily Manning, Youth Coordinator at the New York Center for LGBTQ Outreach. Emily has been married to her wife, Sara, for two years, and Root even got them rings to prove it. Apparently, the Machine ran some simulations and decided that Shaw had a better chance of survival with someone to back her up.  
     “Listen,” Root says. “This is kind of weird for me, too, but it’s the best way The Machine can think of to ensure you stay safe. We might as well make the best of it.” She smiles, waits for Shaw’s response.  
     But Shaw isn’t listening anymore. The woman from before still stares at her, and with Shaw’s glare boring into her, she peels herself from wall she’s leaning against and approaches them, never breaking eye contact with Shaw. Something in the way she walks, her directness, reminds Shaw of herself, of Reese, of Carter. Ex military.  
     Shaw frowns. “I think we have company.”  
     Root looks up. She smiles when the woman reaches them. “Now I get it.”  
     Shaw frowns. “Get what?”  
     Root ignores the question, speaks directly to the woman. “I guess I assumed you’d be a boy. You’re Sam?”  
     Sam nods, and smiles just enough for Shaw to register that she isn’t a threat. “Who’s your friend?”  
     Root smirks. “My wife.”  
     The bar suddenly feels like the air conditioning has been cranked all the way down. She stares Sam down, and it’s not lost on her that she and Root both, in a way, share a name with this woman. She remembers that Root is Samantha Groves, who at the age of twelve watched her friend step into a car with a stranger and knew she’d never see her come back. Root hasn’t been Sam in a long time, just as Shaw hasn’t been Sameen, just like Harold probably doesn’t remember his real name. She and Root aren’t Sam, so she supposes someone has to be. “I’m Em,” she says, her voice as deep and firm as she can make it. Her voice sounds like this when wants to frighten someone into submission, but also when she means to guide someone into arousal. People make the same noises while being beaten to death and while writhing under their partners. Pain and pleasure. They’re not the same, but there is something that connects them. She wonders if anyone would ever guess she thinks about these things, or if it’s very obvious to Sam that she’s just the muscle in this situation.  
     Sam smiles at Shaw very much the same way Root does, always tongue in cheek, always flirtatious. She realizes that if they weren’t here for business, Sam would probably have asked to go home with her, which Shaw would have agreed to, which Root would have moped about.  
     It’s probably better that they’re here for business.  
     Sam looks Shaw up and down, scoffs. “She’s a soldier.”  
     Root frowns. She fishes something from her pocket, presses it to Sam’s hip. Shaw can’t see the weapon, but she knows Root, and therefore knows that it’s a taser. “You know, I don’t like it when someone insults my beautiful girl.”  
     Sam doesn’t waver. Her grin doesn’t even fall, and looking at it makes Shaw clench her fists. “I just thought I was looking for a criminal mastermind is all. Not a gun on legs.”  
     Shaw rolls her eyes. It doesn’t occur to her to point out that she has a medical degree and an expert mind for tactics, but the insult still makes her jaw clench.  
     “Just hand it over,” Root says.  
     “Why the rush? How about I buy you and your girl a drink first?”  
     This makes Shaw laugh. “You think you’re real smooth, don’t you?” She smirks, and Sam’s brows furrow. “See, Sara’s dangerous, don’t get me wrong. But me? I could kill you, torture you, kill your friends and family and make you watch, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. No remorse. No sadness. No hesitation. I’d probably have a good time. Understand?”  
     Her feet carry her so close to Sam that their noses nearly touch. Intimidation is automatic for her, like the Machine spitting out numbers. It’s programmed into the meshes of her skin. “I’ll let you decide for yourself what that means. Just give my girl what she wants.”  
     Sam’s grin falters. She stares at her feet for a moment, then bites her lip. She looks back up at Shaw, but avoids making direct eye contact. “Alright, here.” She slams a flash drive into Root’s hand.  
     “Now,” Shaw says, her voice low, “go back to your friends. Tell them you struck out. Forget you ever met us.”  
     Without another word, Sam turns on her heels and squeezes back through the crowd. Root glances down at the drive in her hand, then back at Shaw, mouth agape and curling into a grin.  
     “What?” Shaw glares at her.  
     “You’re incredible, you know that?” Root giggles, steps in closer. She pockets the drive and the taser, then runs a hand down Shaw’s side, settling it on her hip.  
     Shaw ignores her, even though the contact makes her cheeks burn. “We should go.” She shoves her way through the crowd towards the exit. The night replaces the stale bar air in her lungs, and she does her best to keep her head down and hide herself from cameras. A line has formed outside the building and wraps around the corner. She gives the people, smiling, laughing, feeling people, barely a glance. It almost seems correct to not have Root next to her for the first time in hours, and yet, she’s standing here with her shoulders hunched like a shy school girl. Shaw remembers school. She was never shy. Just quiet. Thoughtful. She never really connected with the other kids, but she learned the social graces, understood how she was expected to act if she didn’t want her peers to think she was stranger than they already did. That’s part of why she made such a good soldier. She knew what she was supposed to do, and she did it. Now, there aren’t any social cues. There’s no way she’s supposed to behave. She’s just supposed to survive, and that’s making her feel things just a little harder than she remembers feeling. She feels things for Root, that’s certain, and the idea that anger is not in fact her default emotion makes her spine hot. Love, joy, hope. These are things Shaw understands she will never feel the same way everyone else does, but the steady and ongoing realization that she does feel them to a degree is the only thing sustaining her.  
     Root joins her outside. “The Machine hasn’t told me what were supposed to do now.” Shaw glances at her, then turns her head and fixes her gaze on a brownstone directly across the street. “I think she wants to give us a break. Let us live as Em and Sara for a while.” They stand there like that for a few moments, balancing the silence between them. A taxi drifts by. Two college-aged girls share a kiss on the corner. The lights go out in the window of an apartment.  
     “The Machine got us an apartment in Chelsea,” Root finally says. Shaw looks at her. “It’s near your office.”  
     “I guess we’re really committing to this marriage thing?”  
     “I guess so.” Shaw follows Root’s gaze as she frowns at the ring on her finger. “Wanna go home, Emily?” Her voice is wistful, as if she wanted everything to go differently.  
     Shaw doesn’t answer for a moment. She scuffs one of her shoes against the other. “What’s on the flash drive?”  
     Root shakes her head. “Not here. Come on.” She grabs Shaw’s hand to lead her away, and Shaw lets her hold it.

                                                                                                 * * *  
     Light spills into the apartment from the hallway as Root opens the door. The whole place is exposed brick, leather furniture, and burgundy bed sheets. The studio straddles the line between cozy and cold, matches perfectly with what Shaw imagines are the current trends in home furnishings. It’s exactly the sort of place a young couple might dwell in.  
     “We can put your stuff away tomorrow,” Root says, her voice quieter than the one Shaw had grown to know. She approaches a locker in the corner by the door, then punches in a key code. The locker door swings open, revealing a small arsenal. “But weapons in here now. The code’s 0313.”  
     Shaw tosses her bag onto the couch, then removes two guns from her waistband. She sets them carefully on a shelf in the locker, and Root sets hers down next to them. Root closes the locker and punches the code back in.  
     Shaw turns to take in the space. Her eyes settle on the bed. There’s only the one.  
     “It’s okay,” Root says. There’s something almost timid in her tone, but not quite. Root was never timid. Sadness maybe? Hurt? “I’m fine sharing the bed, but I’m not gonna force it. I can take the floor if you want.” A little of her usual cheekiness lingers in her smile, but for once in her life, Root seems to be taking something seriously.  
     Shaw likes it.  
     “Do you sleep well on the floor?”  
     Root frowns. “What?”  
     “Do you sleep well on the floor?” Shaw’s voice is even, no sarcasm, no mask.  
     “No.” Root still doesn’t quite follow.  
     Shaw rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. “Listen, if you aren’t going to sleep well on the floor, I’m not gonna make you. It’s your apartment, too.” A grin spreads across Root’s face, but Shaw snips it at the bud. “No cuddling.”  
     “That’s fine,” Root says. Her expression hasn’t changed. “Whatever you need.”  
     And Shaw allows herself to smile too, barely smile, because she knows that Root understands how this is progressing.  
                                                                                                              * * *  
     Shaw’s eyes flutter, but remain closed, and her breath comes to her in deep, relaxed strokes of her windpipe. She pulls the body next to hers closer, savors the sweet smell of her bedmate’s shampoo.  
     Bedmate.  
     Root giggles, and Shaw’s eyes snap open and awake. She doesn’t quite jerk away from Root, but she certainly releases her grip on her and pushes herself way.  
     “No need to be embarrassed,” Root says. “You were doing it all night.” She turns to face Shaw. “I’m glad you’re a big spoon, or else we’d have a problem, wouldn’t we?”  
     Shaw frowns at her. The last thing she needs is for Root to think she’s going soft. “I need to get to work.”  
     In the shower, Shaw stares up at the ceiling. She wanted to establish some behavioral ground rules with Root, but how could she when she’d be the one inadvertently breaking them? Maybe sharing the bed wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe she should get a cot.  
     Or maybe, she should just let things happen. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to wake up like that each morning. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to wake up feeling good.  
     Shaw switches the water off, and the steam around her begins to dissipate. She steps out from behind the curtain, grabs a towel off the rack, and wraps herself in it. The Machine provided them with Hers and Hers towels, spared no expense with their covers, should someone come over, or, more likely, break in.  
     Root, bathrobe clad, steps into the bathroom and grabs a toothbrush and toothpaste from a decorative wooden cup. Shaw meets her eyes and chances a small and tentative smile. Root’s brows furrow for just a moment, but then she smiles back.  
     Shaw ducks her head and shuffles past Root towards the door, but stops. She walks back to Root, places her forehead on Root’s shoulder. Root looks to her, then puts a hand to Shaw’s wet hair. They stand there like that for a few seconds.  
     When Shaw lifts her head, her eyes meet Root’s, and a lightness forms in her chest. Shaw thinks that if she was normal, this is when she would allow her head to tilt forward and capture Root’s lips in her own. It wouldn’t be the sort of kiss dripping with Shaw’s needs or wants, but rather a bright, sweet, nervous kiss. A thank you to Root for loving her without judgement.  
     Shaw stops herself. Root can’t love her. Root doesn’t know her.  
     Well perhaps, Shaw reasons, she should let her.  
     She’s going to need to kiss Root eventually, she figures. They’re supposed to be married after all. But doing it here, like this, would mean something entirely different than doing it in public for appearances. Outside, they’re Emily and Sara, who had this moment years ago. In here, safe in their apartment, they are Root and Shaw, and maybe they’re not so safe after all.  
     Shaw knows she’s been staring at Root for far too long. She needs to make a decision.  
     Clutching her towel tightly around herself, she leans into Root and presses a slow, lingering kiss to her cheek. She hears Root inhale through her nose, then exhale through her mouth as Shaw pulls away.  
     Shaw can’t bring herself to meet Root’s eyes. Her stomach flips. “That won’t happen again,” she says, before turning as steadily as she can on her heel and walking with a slow, even gait towards the door.


End file.
